


The Romanian Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya must travel to Romanian to claim his ancetrial home.  There are just a few obstacles in his way - family, a past love, and, oh, did we mention a Phantom?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Romanian Affair

**Author's Note:**

> This is the very first MFU story I ever wrote. It was published in 1980 and you will see just how far I've have come as a writer. The one thing that I would like to point out, this was written without the benefit of ever having seen the show. I read the books and magazines, along with a few (very few) fanfics written. Is the lead female Mary Sue-ish? Yes. Is the plot a little simplistic? Yes, but I'd just turned only 21). 
> 
> Still I read this and I am not embarassed by it. However, I do remind you - it was a long time ago...

 

 

 

            A tiny train crawled laboriously up the steep Harghitiei mountain range that ran the entire length of the small province of Mures Magay, Romania.  Inside one of the travel compartments a man in his 60's stared out the window at the rain-pelted landscape, a black briar pipe dangling from his lips as he watched the steep terrain creep by.  Across from him sat a blond-haired man, deeply engrossed in Tolstoy’s “The Kreutzer Sonata".  He muttered softly to himself in Russian as he read, momentarily drawing the attention of the compartment's third occupant sitting beside him.

           

            Napoleon Solo stretched his legs across the short distance between the two seats and studied his companions.  Though Alexander Waverly looked like a kindly old professor, he was actually the number one man of UNCLE's Section One.  As Solo watched, Waverly pulled his top coat closer about the baggy tweed suit he always wore.  Solo reached down to readjust his pants as he squirmed uncomfortably on the chilly railway seat, then regarded the motionless, fair-haired Illya Kuryakin.

           

            The sight of the Russian's peeling, still-red face reminded Solo that he had found Illya crawling up a sand dune in the Sahara Desert just a few short days ago.  THRUSH had captured Illya, interrogated him, and left him there to die.  With a little luck, Solo and a fellow agent had eventually located him.  In the moist Romanian railway compartment, Illya now seemed no more like the dehydrated form Solo had carried back to civilization on camelback than Solo did.  The dark-haired UNCLE agent chuckled to himself and half closed his eyes, remembering.

           

            Upon their return from Africa, they immediately went to check in at UNCLE Headquarters.  A taxi deposited them at one of the series of crumbling brownstone buildings that held the secret UNCLE complex.  Solo paid the driver as Illya stiffly crawled out of the taxi, carefully avoiding any unnecessary movements.

           

            Together they entered Del Floria's tailor shop.  Mr. Del Floria looked up from behind the counter, smiling as he recognized them.  Solo slipped off his suit jacket and handed it to Del Floria as Illya painfully made his way back to the third fitting room, where he waited patiently for Solo to join him.  Solo closed the curtains as Illya yanked down the third coat hook, and they blinked at the suddenly revealed brilliance of the U.N.C.L.E reception area.

           

            The receptionist smiled as they approached, her hands already reaching across the desk for the trianglar badges that would nullify the complex's intrusion detectors.  "Mr. Waverly asks that you report to him as quickly as possible.... like two minutes ago."  She pinned a badge to Solo's shirt pocket and picked up a second one, carefully activating it, as well, with the chemical on her fingers:  Now neither badges nor agents would trigger UNCLE's alarms.  She hesitated before pinning it to Kuryakin's turtleneck and murmured softly, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

            A second set of agents was entering from the wall panel; she gestured Solo and Illya on.  They hurried to the elevator and Illya punched the third floor button, frowning.

           

            "What's wrong, my dour Russian?" asked Napoleon.

 

            Illya shook his head.  "Just trying to figure out what Miss Browning meant by apologizing to me."

 

            "Maybe she stuck you," Solo suggested, his mind on a few days of vacation.

 

            "No, she hadn't even pinned my badge on yet."

 

            "Then maybe she's planning on sticking you later tonight,” Solo grinned, and Illya's face twisted into a disapproving grimace.

 

            As the two approached Mr. Waverly's secretary, she glanced up and gasped at Illya's beet-red face.  "My word, Illya, what happened to you?"  Illya tried to smile without moving his face and wondered what she would say if she saw the rest of him.  Without pausing for an answer, the woman gestured at the inner door.  "He's waiting for you; not wise to keep him waiting."

           

            The door slid back to allow the agents to enter, and Mr. Waverly looked up at them from behind his desk.  He gestured them to seats, reached for his pipe tobacco, and cleared his throat as he stuffed the custom blended tobacco into his black briar pipe.  "Good afternoon, gentlemen.  I have asked you here on a rather delicate matter.  While it pertains mainly to you, Mr. Kuryakin, I think that you'll appreciate why I have asked you both here."

           

            He rose and walked around the desk, then resumed speaking. "Mr. Kuryakin, it is my sad and unfortunate task to inform you that your grandfather, Nicolas Kuryakin, has passed away.  I'm very sorry."

           

            He looked up to gauge the effect upon the Russian agent, but Illya's solemn expression remained unchanged as he lowered his gaze to the floor and nodded his head.  "I knew it was only a matter of time," Illya said, and hesitated before asking, "Was it a quick death?"

 

            Mr. Waverly smiled gently and nodded his head. "He passed away in his sleep."  Napoleon reached out to place a sympathetic hand on Illya's arm and the agents looked at each other, seeing in each other's eyes what they could never say.

 

            "Will I be allowed to return to Romania for the funeral?"  Illya asked, his hands on the arms of his chair.

 

            "Yes, and Mr. Solo was well, if you would like his company."  Mr. Waverly's voice was kind.  "A friend seems to help at times like these."

 

            "Thank you, Sir."  Illya looked back to catch Napoleon's nod of consent.

 

            "Perhaps, in light of the situation, you would allow me the pleasure of your company tonight for dinner at the Four Seasons."  Mr. Waverly had relaxed, now that the hard part of his task was over.  "Say, eight o'clock?"

 

            "It would be a pleasure to eat something that doesn't have sand in it," Illya said, deadpan.

 

            "We'll import some for you, if you'd like," Solo said, trying to lighten the mood.

 

            "I don't think that will be necessary, Mr. Solo.  Mr. Kuryakin looks as though he's seen enough desert for awhile.  How did the mission go?"

 

            "As I mentioned in my earlier report, we got THRUSH bottled up nicely, Sir.  They won't be trying to melt Egypt down again for quite some time.  The clean-up crew should have their report in within the week."  Solo straightened.  "The head THRUSH, Arlene Westin," he paused, then added, "I'm sure you remember her."

 

            "Quite well, Mr. Solo."

 

            "She was captured and taken into custody by the African police.  Apparently they had an outstanding warrant for her arrest.  We are currently in negotiations to have her released to UNCLE"  Solo purposefully kept one eye on the small Russian agent during his report.

 

            "Very good, Mr. Solo.  You are to be congratulated upon a job well done, and you also, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

            At the sound of his name, Illya's head bobbed up, but the blank look on his face showed that his mind was elsewhere.  Mr. Waverly kept his reprimand to himself; it was obvious that Illya didn't need to be chastened right now.  Then a piece of paper on the corner of his desk caught Waverly's eye.

 

            "Ah, Mr. Kuryakin, I almost forgot to mention that your grandfather has named you sole heir to his estate in his will."  This time Illya's face registered surprise.

 

            "Sole heir?  But that's not possible," he exclaimed after a moment.  Mr. Waverly pulled out the paper and scanned it until he found what he wanted.

 

            "According to your grandfather's lawyers, Mr. Rusa and Mr. Vladmik, you are the surviving male heir and he has named you as sole benefactor to his estate including 180 acres and a castle.  You will have to appear in person before the will is to be read to make your claim, and they seem to suggest all due haste.  I took the liberty of securing seats for you on the next flight to Romania."

 

            "A castle," Illya echoed.  "What am I going to do with a castle?"

 

            "Maybe you could rent it out to some nice visiting czar," Napoleon suggested as he sat further back in the soft leather chair and regarded his meticulously-pressed pants.  He was thinking less of the days ahead than about the meal that night.

           

                                                                             

 

            Mr. Waverly looked up, to see his agents approaching him: Solo, as impeccably dressed as usual in a dark blue suit and silk shirt, and Illya, also as usual, comfortably clad in black turtleneck, black, pants, and a casual black jacket.  The two men made their way towards him, Illya still walking stiffly and very slowly.  Solo finally abandoned him and came up to Mr. Waverly.

 

            "I'm sorry we're late, sir, but it was a struggle getting Illya out of that ice bath.  His feet are really blistered."

 

            "No apologies are necessary, Mr. Solo.  I, myself, was early."  When Illya finally joined the group, they ordered dinner; Mr. Waverly sat back, amused, as Solo argued with Illya and finally convinced him to share a roast rack of lamb Persillé.

 

            They were halfway through the main course and second bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape before Mr. Waverly had enough courage to bring up the evening's topic.  "Mr. Kuryakin, I sincerely dislike bringing up an unpleasant subject and I realize that my timing is not the best in the world, but there is something I need to know."

 

            Illya swallowed the mouthful of lamb he had been working on and raised his eyebrows.  "Yes, Sir?"

 

            "This afternoon you made the remark, `What am I going to do with a castle', did you not?"

 

            "Yes, Sir, I did."  Illya sipped his wine and threw a questioning look in Solo's direction.  The dark-haired agent merely shrugged.

 

            "Have you decided as yet what to do with it?"

 

            "Haven't really given it much thought, to be honest.  Why do you ask, Sir?"

 

            "UNCLE could greatly benefit from such a structure."  Mr. Waverly paused, then quickly continued, “As you gentlemen are aware, we now have only our training center in northeastern Bolivia; you know how warm it is there."

 

            Both Solo and Illya emitted low groans as they thought back to their training days amid the unbearable heat.

 

            "We are also growing at such a rate that it will soon be impossible for us to handle all the incoming personnel.  We were hoping that perhaps you, Mr. Kuryakin, would consent to selling UNCLE the castle and the surrounding grounds for a new training center."

 

            "It would be an ideal spot," Illya agreed.  "Back far enough to keep unwary people away -- but what about our friends in the KGB?  Wouldn't they be annoyed at having a training center so close?"

 

            "I am sure they will give us no trouble."  Mr. Waverly knew what a favor he was asking of the Russian.  He waited as Illya took another sip of wine and swallowed it slowly.

 

            "I wouldn't know what to do with it if I kept it, so I guess if UNCLE wants it, they're free to have it.  Anything is better than that stinking jungle."

 

            Napoleon spoke up suddenly.  "Just out of curiosity, what happens if someone contests the will after Illya gets the castle, but before he gets back here to sign the property rights over to UNCLE?"

 

            "The exact reason I'm joining you and Mr. Kuryakin on the next flight to Romania," Mr. Waverly responded.

 

            Solo sat up abruptly.  "But, Sir," he whispered, keeping his voice low to avoid attracting attention, "are you sure that's wise?  UNCLE ..."

 

            "... can take care of itself for a few days."

 

            "But THRUSH is around every corner."

 

            "Stop seeing shadows where none exist, Mr. Solo.  Besides, I'll have UNCLE's two top agents with me every step of the way.  There'll be no trouble."

 

            Illya grimaced as he swallowed a mouthful of spinach, and Solo laughed.  "Don't feel bad, Illya.  Baked Alaska for dessert."  He watched Illya's face lighten at the prospect.

           

 

 

            A jolt brought Solo back to reality, and the train moaned as it chugged its way up the mountainside.  Mr. Waverly had nodded off, the unlit pipe resting on his lap.  Illya was still engrossed in his book.  Solo reached over and tapped his partner on the shoulder.  Illya's head bobbed up at Solo, bright blue eyes questioning.

 

            "You couldn't take the chance of entering Russia?"

 

            "It was before the UNCLE-KGB pact in '62.  The KGB was still rather annoyed about my staying with UNCLE"

 

 

            "If someone swiped my best agent, I'd be upset too," Napoleon admitted, with a chuckle.

 

            The train's whistle blasted, loud even thought muted by the heavy downpour outside.  Waverly twitched, then sat up.  "Gentlemen," he acknowledged softly, returning his pipe to his mouth.  "Mr. Kuryakin, do you recognize the area?"

 

            "Yes, sir, I do.  We'll be coming up on the village just around the next bend.  There will be a ride to the castle waiting for us."

 

            The train picked up speed as it topped the last mountain and the track leveled off on the plateau.  The compartment grew brighter as the train pulled into the station and screeched to a halt.

 

            The door slid back and a wizened man appeared and croaked something in Romanian.  Illya answered quickly and scrambled over his partner's feet to disappear into the hall.

 

            "Not bad for a man who could barely crawl a few days ago," Solo noted, as he stood and waited for some sign of life from Waverly.  The older man finally managed to stand up as well and they followed Illya out into the corridor.

 

            "Where'd Illya get to?  Blast him, he knows I can't speak much Romanian."  Solo climbed down onto the platform and turned to offer Mr. Waverly a hand; Waverly shook it away and climbed slowly down.  Solo ducked under the protective cover of the station and scanned the lighted area, hoping to see Illya's familiar shape, while Waverly supervised the unloading of their few suitcases, seemingly oblivious to the cold wind that blasted through the station.  Solo could feel the cold working its way into his clothes -- he fervently wished that he had listened to Illya's suggestions for heavier clothing.  Yet Mr. Waverly was dressed more lightly than himself, and seemed to be faring well.  "If it doesn't bother him,” Solo decided, teeth threatening to chatter, "it won't bother me."

 

            Abruptly he heard a familiar voice shout, "Hey, Napoleon, over here!"  Solo spun and his jaw dropped as he saw what Illya was sitting in.  The coach was huge, done in heavy black Swedish wood, pulled by six tall black horses.  Even worse was the huge, ornate "K" decorating the side panel.  "Pretty sharp, huh?"  Illya climbed out of the lavish contraption, and the driver began loading their luggage.

 

            "I'm not riding in that," Solo announced defiantly.

 

            "Fine with me, Napoleon, but it's a long walk to the castle and it's only going to get colder."  Illya's grin grew as Solo swallowed his pride and climbed aboard.

 

            The rain had stopped and the clouds had lifted enough to allow the moon to shine through.  Despite the elegant trappings, the coach was not equipped with a heater, though only Napoleon seemed to be missing it.  He wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm and wiggled half-frozen toes, as Illya gestured at the window and announced, "There she is -- the Valtra Dornei, named after the city that provided all her stones."

 

            Solo crowded against Illya to get a look out the window as Mr. Waverly peered out on his side.  The moon broke just above the castle's tallest tower, and ramparts and battlements pushed their way to the roving clouds.

 

            "All you need is a monster and some rioting villagers and you've got it made," Solo commented.  "Illya, that place is huge."

 

            "My grandfather liked big things.  He added the towers in '91 to increase the size.  Did you know that my grandmother stood well over six feet?"

 

            "Then what happened to you, my short Slav?"  Solo grinned at Illya, and saw the dour mouth break into a smile.

 

            "I got all the brains."

 

            Waverly sat back, watching with a twinge of envy the two agents banter back and forth.  It had been a long time since he had been so close to a fellow agent.

 

            The castle door opened slowly as the coach pulled up and Solo was relieved at the warm glow inside.  As the driver grappled again with their suitcases, Illya scrambled from the coach and led the two men up a steep set of white marble stairs to a wooden door also bearing a "K".  Inside, Solo gasped, overwhelmed by the immense vestibule, the glimpse of a hall and staircase beyond, all done up in heavy tapestries.  A shrill voice startled him out of his reverie.

 

            "Illya?  Illya?  Buska, is that you?"  A plump, matronly woman rushed up to Illya to catch him in a bear hug.  She pulled back slightly to gaze lovingly at the small blond.  "Illya, I haven't seen you since you were fifteen, and I swear you haven't grown an inch, either way.  You're so thin, Buska.  Let Tassia fix you something, da?"  She released him, smoothing her apron, and finally noticed the other two visitors.  "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends, Buska?"

 

            Illya struggling to maintain what little dignity he had left, said solemnly, "Yes, of course, Tassia, if you'll permit.  These are Napoleon Solo and Alexander Waverly.  We're business associates.  Napoleon, Mr. Waverly, this is Tassia Vladovitch, our housekeeper."

 

            The two men nodded their welcome, but Tassia drew herself up, frowning as she took their coats.  "Business, eh?  So you're the men responsible for stealing our Buska from us."  She hesitated as if contemplating what to say, smiled reluctantly, and started again in an entirely different mood.  "Come then, the ride was cold.  You'll be needing something to warm your stomachs, da?"  She walked off without them.

 

            Illya chuckled.  "Good old Tassia.  She's at her happiest when she's feeding you."

 

            "She speaks English very well,” Napoleon said as they followed her.

 

            "Remarkably so, considering how few foreigners they probably see."  Waverly added his comments.

 

            "Another of my grandfather's quirks.  He was sure that America would one day be the dominating country in the world.  He insisted that everyone in the castle speak only English while he was present.  To speak Russian was to feel his wrath," Illya explained as they followed the housekeeper.

 

            "I can well imagine that his attitude made him very unpopular with your country," Waverly said, his attention wandering to the tapestries hanging in the great hall.

 

            "Expatrite, actually," Illya admitted.  "It was only through the actions of my father that we were allowed to return to our native Russia.  As you might guess, that put him at odds with Grandfather."

 

            "So let me get this right," Napoleon interupted.  "If your father and grandfather hated each other, how did you fit in?"

 

            "My father had three sisters, so none of their children were direct Kuryakins.  I was the only male born in the family and my grandfather somehow managed to swallow his opinionated-pride while I was growing up.  I think he was hoping to use me against my father, but he never gave Grandfather a chance," Illya said.  "He sent me to schools abroad as soon as I was old enough, away from my Grandfather's sphere of influence."

 

            "You make my childhood seem so simple," Napoleon said, with a chuckle.  "All I had to worry about was acne and getting a date for the prom."

 

 

            They followed Tassia to a large sitting room with a fire roaring in a fireplace tall enough for a standing man, and four people sitting in chairs and sofa around it.  A woman rose from the group to greet them.  Solo saw that she was almost as tall as himself, with a sweeping mane of golden hair and clear blue eyes.  A tight skirt and blouse displayed her long figure magnificently, and she looked so familiar that Solo frowned, wondering if he had met her before.

 

            She threw her head back and, in English, announced loudly,  "Well, well, if it isn't our little Illya.  Here to get your share of the spoils?"  Her accent was heavier than Illya's, but she still handled English well.

 

            Illya stopped dead in his tracks and Solo, behind him, saw his neck muscles tense.  "Hello Leetrisa," said the small Russian quietly.

 

            "Hello, Leetrisa," the girl mimicked.  "You've been gone for ten years and all you have to say is, `Hello, Leetrisa,'?"  She moved suddenly and Solo braced himself for a fight. Instead the girl attacked Illya with a hard embrace, then pulled away and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes with a movement Napoleon had seen Illya use a thousand times. "Damn you for staying away so long," she said.

 

            Solo took a deep breath and thought, 'Well, old man, it's now or never.'  He swept forward, turning on every charm he possessed.  "Illya, who is this charming vision and why haven't you introduced us?"

 

            "Pull your talons in, you pirate.  Napoleon, this is Leetrisa, my sister."  Illya underlined the word verbally before adding, to Leetrisa, "and this is Alexander Waverly."

 

            Waverly bowed his head in acknowledgement as Solo gallantly offered his arm.  The girl smiled politely and, instead, grasped Illya's, pulling him towards the group of people.  Waverly smiled to himself as he caught Solo's look of despair.

 

            Leetrisa thrust Illya into the middle of the group at the fireside.  He failed to recognize two, but his eyes widened in surprise as they came to rest on the third person who sat, her back to him, staring into the fire.  Illya swallowed twice before murmuring, "Hello, Katrina."

 

            The woman turned toward them and Solo's interest grew.  Here was a classic example of Russian beauty, oval face framed by long raven hair, white skin contrasting with near-black eyes.  She sat back, drawing Solo's attention to her slim, yet ample figure, but she only looked at Illya as she answered, "It's been a long time, Illya.  Welcome home."  Her eyes locked with the Russian agent's steel-blue gaze, then she returned to the fire.

 

            "Katrina had been taking care of Grandpapa, Illya," Leetrisa said from Illya's side.  "She didn't desert us the way you did.  After what you jilted her, she turned to us for support."

 

            Illya slipped easily into Russian.  "I did not run out," he snapped.  "Some things must take precedence over others."

 

            "Don't try to make your peace with me, little brother -- you didn't even come for the funeral.  Some devoted grandson!"

 

            "I came as soon as I could."  Illya felt his control slipping.  He repressed the urge to smack Leetrisa and, instead, locked one of his famous glares upon her.  She glared right back.

 

            Solo didn't understand much Russian, but knew the sound of a fight in progress.  It wasn't too much different than when he and his own sister got going.  He reckoned that Illya still had a few good minutes left when the housekeeper interrupted the siblings confrontation, scolding in her heavily-accented English, "Not together ten minutes and already you fight.  Have some consideration for the guests.  Leetrisa, act like the lady your grandfather taught you to be."  Leetrisa stuck her tongue out at her brother.  Tassia turned back to Solo and Waverly and smiled apologetically.  "Brothers and sisters will fight.  Especially these two.  I don't think one day went by that they were not trying to wring each other's necks.  But never mind, please to meet the rest of the party."  She gestured to a somber-faced gentleman.  "This is Dr. Boris Stanovich, Mr. Kuryakin's physician.  This is Alexi Vladsky, Leetrisa's fiancé..."

 

            "Fiancé!"  Illya interrupted.  "Why wasn't I informed?"  He glanced sharply towards his sister, who smiled and sat beside the towering giant on the sofa, her arms around a massive bicept.

 

            "How, Illya?  Send a carrier pigeon to the U.S.?  It's not like I can just waltz all over the globe like you.  Remember, I am only a woman and constrained by my country.  You've forgotten how little freedom we have, little brother." 

 

Illya took a step towards her

 

            "If you have something to say, perhaps it should be said to me," Alexi rumbled as he rose to his full 6'7".  Only a quick shake of Mr. Waverly's head prevented Illya from taking Alexi on there and then. 

 

            He swallowed his raging pride and said, sounding calm, "I just would have liked to have known, that's all."

 

            "Now you know, little brother!" roared Alexi and slapped Illya on the back.  The blow nearly knocked Illya off his feet and brought tears of pain to his eyes as his sunburn started to rage again.  He clenched his teeth and fought for control as Tassia introduced Katrina.

 

            The group exchanged polite hellos as Illya eased himself down onto the couch beside Katrina and waited for the pain in his back to ease.  He barely heard the softly spoken question when it came.  "Why did you leave?" Katrina looked at him, her face questioning.

 

            "I had to, Katrina."  Illya reverted to Russian as he dropped his gaze to the floor and began to fumble with his special UNCLE ring.  It was a deceptively innocent device:  hidden in the seemingly solid band of gold was a threadlike garroting cord.  Illya twisted the deadly thing around his left ring finger, and Katrina watched him, concern clouding her face.

 

            She finally put her fear into words.  "There is someone else now?"

 

            Illya glanced up at her, shocked, and then noticed her looking at the ring.  He shook his head.  "There's never been anyone else, Katrina.  This ring is just a gift from a distant uncle."

 

            "Why didn't you take me with you?"  There was pain in her voice.  "I would have gone to America with you."

 

            Illya returned his gaze to the floor and mumbled, "I couldn't, Katrina.  There were certain things that necessitated my flight.  I couldn't expose you to them; they were too dangerous."  Despite the conversation around Illya, everyone seemed to be listening to him.  "Katrina, we'll talk later in private and I'll try to explain more.  There will be no flights this time, I promise."  Illya's voice softened and the corners of his usually dour mouth flicked up in a smile.

 

            Abruptly, Alexi bellowed, "How ungracious of me not to offer you drinks.  Mr. Solo, what will you have?" 

 

            "Brandy, if you have it."

 

            "Absolutely we have it.  And you, Mr. Waverly?"

 

            "Brandy, I should think," responded Mr. Waverly politely, and returned to his conversation with Dr. Stanovich.  Alexi carefully poured the drinks into two large crystal goblets, again bearing "K's" similar to the one on the coach and the door.  Solo was beginning to get an idea how just how affluent Illya's family was.  Alexi brought the drinks and turned his attention to Illya, who had settled back against the crushed velvet of the antique sofa.

 

            "And you, soon-to-be little brother?  Vodka, I presume?"  Illya ignored the question's delivery and smiled genially.

 

            "Thanks, but I'd prefer gin if you can scratch it up."

 

            A tall, dark featured man entered the room, clearing his throat as he approached.  "I beg your pardon, but I am here to inform you that dinner shall be served in one hour.  Formal attire is optional."  He directed his attention to the UNCLE men.  "If you gentlemen will accompany me, I'll show you to your rooms."

 

            Solo rose gracefully to his feet, setting his glass down on a nearby table, as did Waverly.  Alexi approached Illya as he stood up, and handed him a goblet with a large portion of gin.  Illya eyed the drink momentarily, then downed the alcohol in one gulp and handed the glass back to Alexi.  "Thanks, old man, that hit the spot."  He hurried to keep up with his companions.  "And now my stomach burns like everything else," he added to himself.

 

            The tall butler led the way upstairs, pausing at the landing.  "I'm afraid that your grandfather had several of the bedrooms dismantled to be converted into dance studios for Miss Leetrisa.  Because of that we'll be forced to put two of you gentlemen in the same room.  Mr. Kuryakin, you'll want the master bedroom?" the butler paused.

 

            "No, Kolya, I'll share a room with Mr. Solo.  Give the master bedroom to Mr. Waverly -- he'll appreciate it more than I would."

 

            "Very good, sir."

 

            "Wait a minute, Kolya.  You said that several rooms had been converted, does that include the east tower?"  To Solo and Waverly he explained, "My favorite room is there."

 

            "I'm afraid that your grandfather had the entire east tower sealed after the mysterious disappearance of your grandmother.  He said it made her soul rest easier.  Your room, gentlemen; I'll have the bags sent up directly."  He opened a door and addressed Mr. Waverly.  "If you'll follow me, sir."  The butler led Waverly away.

 

            Napoleon laughed. "What a drop of sunshine he is."

 

            "As warm as a dead thrush," agreed Illya.

 

            "He sure is big."

 

            "I told you that my grandfather liked big things."

 

            "You must have broken his heart."  Napoleon eased off his suit jacket and adjusted the shoulder holster he always wore, as Illya sighed.

 

            "Please, Napoleon, I get enough of that with Leetrisa and her little brother bit.  I'm really two years older than she is, if the truth be known."  He stopped as a knock on the door announced the arrival of their luggage.

 

            Solo frowned slightly.  "What will be acceptable at dinner tonight?"

 

            "A good question.  Allow me to ponder it."  Illya ignored the two armchairs in front of the fireplace, the wall of books, the other walls covered in pictures and stylish trappings, and went instead to one of the two canopied beds.  Like the rest of the room's furnishings, it was a period piece, four feet from floor to mattress.  Illya jumped up onto the bed and pushed his head back into the pillow.  "Wake me in half an hour."

 

            "But, Illya..." Napoleon began, but Illya had already fallen asleep.

 

 

 

            Mr. Waverly entered their room as Illya exited from the bathroom, smoothing his straight hair into place after a struggle with his turtleneck.  Napoleon looked at Illya and groaned inwardly.  Unlike Solo, Illya regarded clothing merely as something to keep him warm and lawful.  Solo shook his head in dismay and brushed off the sleeve of his dinner jacket suit as he turned to Mr. Waverly, whose baggy Harris tweed outfit always looked proper and comfortable.  The UNCLE chief returned Solo's smile and turned to greet Illya, now working his stockinged feet into a pair of black boots.  Illya sat back and batted again at the wayward hair before beginning to strap on his shoulder holster.

 

            Mr. Waverly cleared his throat.  "Mr. Kuryakin, I seriously doubt that the firearm will be necessary at dinner tonight."

 

            "I certainly hope not, but all the same, I'll keep it on.  I feel naked without it."  Illya readjusted the holster and checked the weapon's safety.  Satisfied, he pulled on a black jacket and gestured to the door.  "After you, gentlemen."

 

            "No, after you, Mr. Kuryakin, you're our guide."

 

            As Illya led them down the hall, Solo studied the portraits that lined each side.  "Know any of them, Illya?"

 

            "Not personally, my generation's downstairs.  These all go back to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.  My sisters and I used to sit up here for hours, inventing stories about them."  Suddenly every muscle in Illya's body tensed.  He threw his gaze quickly down the vast expanse of hall, asking, "Napoleon, did you...?"

 

            "I most certainly did.  There's someone watching us."  Solo let his hand drift closer to the P-38 UNCLE special in his shoulder holster.

 

            "I would suggest a quicker pace, gentlemen,"  Mr. Waverly urged.

 

            Illya pushed on, his step silent against the hardwood floor, and he, too, kept his hand close to his gun. 

 

            When they arrived at the dining room, Illya was ushered to the head of the table, to be seated between Solo and Waverly.  Leetrisa had taken the other end of the table with Alexi on her right; Dr. Stanovich, Katrina, and two unidentified gentlemen completed the party.  "Gentlemen,” Alexi boomed, "please to meet Mr. Rusa and Mr. Valadamir, Nicolas' lawyers and the people who will tell us exactly how the old man felt about us."

 

            "All the subtlety of a THRUSH interrogator,” Napoleon murmured over his water glass to Illya, whose blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

 

            Caviar and pate had just been served with the relish tray, as Dr. Stanovich rose, holding his wineglass high.  "Gentlemen and ladies,” he said in Russian.  Illya leaned forward to translate for Solo and Waverly.  "It is because of the passing away of one generation and the installing of another that we meet here tonight.  Nicolas, to those of us who knew him well, was a hard, yet fair man, who knew his mind and his way in life.  Now that he has gone, the next male heir steps into his place.  Illya, we can only hope that you will carry on the Kuryakin name as proudly as did your grandfather."  Dr. Stanovich paused, then added proudly in English, "Here's to passing and coming!"  Illya choked on his mouthful of wine and coughed as Napoleon pounded him on the back.

 

            "Bad choice of words on the Doctor's part, I'll admit,” Napoleon said softly.  "But you could use a lesson at Solo's School of Savoir Faire."

 

            "Sorry."  Illya, saved from further apologizing by the arrival of the soup, caught his breath and blinked back the tears from his eyes.  Solo relaxed and sipped the bouillon as he carefully took in Katrina from across the table.  She, however, barely glanced in his direction, for most of her attention was divided between Illya and her food.  Illya, in turn, seemed to be noticing nothing more than the caviar and pickled walnuts, although Solo knew he was conscious of every word and movement in the room.

 

            "Well, Illya,” commented Leetrisa.  "I see you've finally acquired a taste for caviar, but why won't you touch the pate de fois gras?  You used to love it."

 

            Illya swallowed, murmured, "gives me heartburn now," and settled back to much contentedly on a walnut.  The main course went over well, except for Illya's look of shock at the creamed spinach.

 

            "Brain food, my friend,” Solo commented, and feared for a brief moment that Illya would toss the forkful of spinach in his face.  He quickly changed the subject.  "This is a wonderful wine, Illya, what is it?"

 

            Illya shook his head, but Leetrisa spoke up.  "My grandfather's private stock,” she said, over the buzz of conversation.  "He had a vineyard down in the valley and this is from the 1891 harvest.  We have a whole cellar full of the stuff and every harvest they just keep bringing more.  I'm afraid we'll have to start selling it soon, we're simply running out of room."  Whether she was toying with him, or really didn't know what a valuable product they simply had too much of, Solo couldn't tell, but he had the distinct feeling that he was being baited.  He nodded his thanks and continued with his meal, listening to the conversation around him even though he couldn't follow most of it as everyone seemed to have reverted to Russian again.  Once in awhile a word would pop up that he understood, but not enough to get the gist of the conversation.

 

            Finally, he leaned over to Illya and murmured, "Illya, I have a really strange feeling."

 

            "Me, too, I don't think the caviar is sitting just right."

 

            "That's not what I meant."  Solo carefully kept his voice neutral. "I could be wrong, I get the distinct impression that these people are unaware that you've been named sole heir."

 

            Beneath the buzz of voice, Mr. Waverly spoke up softly, "I'm afraid that Mr. Solo is correct.  Mr. Rusa had informed me that the others are not aware of the contents of the will.  It would appear that your grandfather's last wish was that you be present at the will reading."

 

            "But why did they tell us?"  Napoleon dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

 

            "They felt that it important that Mr. Kuryakin be here and the only way they knew how to do that was to let him know what was at stake.  The lawyers have requested that we keep this information to ourselves until the reading later tonight."

 

            Solo groaned.  "Then fireworks will fly at the reading."  He raised his glass to Illya, who brought his up too.  "Well, old friend, here's to pyrotechnics."

 

            "Nostravia,” Illya chimed in, tinkling his glass against Solo's.  Suddenly, a shotgun blast sounded and Solo's glass exploded in his hand, spraying wine and glass over the table.  Solo barked, "Down!" and drew his P-38 special.  Illya had his own Walther out, firing through the broken window pane.

 

            "Mr. Waverly, are you all right?"  Illya shouted over the noise.

 

            "Just fine, Mr. Kuryakin,” Waverly yelled back, his own gun out and his eyes sparkling with excitement.  "How many would you guess?"

 

            "If it's THRUSH, they'll have backups somewhere, but for now only one."  Solo took refuge behind a chair and got off several shots.  Their attacker returned the fire, the blast taking out another window.

 

            Illya half-crawled to his sister's end of the table.  "Keep your head down,” he ordered Alexi, who keep peering up every time a shot was exchanged.

 

            "Don't worry about me, little man,” the giant roared, as he put his arms protectively around Leetrisa.

 

            Illya caught sight of Katrina, still sitting rigid and pale in her chair.  "Katrina, get down!"  Illya gauged the gunshots that followed his voice and locked eyes with Solo, who gestured and then yelled.

 

            "Go!"  Solo shot off several rounds as Illya vaulted over the table and snatched Katrina out of her chair.  He dragged her to the floor and flattened against her, shielding her with his body.  Napoleon snatched a glance to make sure they were safe before returning to the gun battle.

 

            The shots suddenly stopped as Illya passed Katrina to Mr. Vladavich, and the Russian agent hurried to Solo's side, keeping his gun trained upon the window and the black Romanian night.

 

            "Hit something?"

 

            "Either that or his rilfe's melted down."  Napoleon checked his gun's clip, adding, "Looks like a little bird caught wind of our party."

 

            "That's not possible,” Illya replied, pushing a fresh clip into his own gun.  "Security was tight and we were careful.  No one else could have known."

 

            "Not careful enough, apparently."  Solo pushed his head above the table to scan the dark window.  "Looks like they've quit for the moment.  Mr. Waverly, if you can handle things here, Illya and I will take a look around."  Solo pulled his head back down to face his boss.

 

            "Absolutely, Mr. Solo.  I think the battle has spent itself.  I'll move them to another room."

 

            "One without windows, I hope,” Illya muttered, conscious of his sister's curious stare.

 

            "Rest assured of that, Mr. Kuryakin,” nodded Waverly.

 

            "Okay, Illya, you ready?"  Solo waited for Illya's nod before sprinting at full speed to the door, Illya on his heels.

 

            "What are you people?"  Alexi's voice shook the hours as he rose to his full height.

 

            "If you'll keep your temper for a moment longer until we've safely left this room, I shall attempt to explain,” Mr. Waverly said calmly.

           

 

 

            Illya brushed his way through the low hedges that surrounded his grandfather's house.  Moving soundlessly, cat-like, he scanned every shadow.  A creak to his right drew his attention and he dropped to the ground to crawl toward the sound.  He stopped at a spot covered with spent rifle shells, picked one up, and rose, placing it in his pocket.

 

            Abruptly he was attacked from behind.  The assailant dropped from the tree above, dragging Illya to the ground, knocking both his gun and his wind from him.  Illya flung his hands back towards his attacker and let out a yelp as his knuckles skidded across a tooth.  He sprang to his feet and spun to face his attacker, but his timing was off, and he heard a distinct crack as something caught him across the forehead.  He gasped and flailed his arms to keep from falling over and lashed out with a punch in the general direction of the attacker, but was rewarded by a hard blow to his stomach.  Illya dropped to his hands and knees and his assailant brought one more blow down on the back of his head.  Illya collapsed, the fight temporarily out of him, his head singing like a cage of birds. ‘Thrushes,’ he thought bitterly, and burst into a renewed frenzy of motion as he felt hands upon him.

 

            "Hey, take it easy, Illya!"  The voice of Napoleon Solo filtered through to him, and Illya relaxed.

 

            "Napoleon?  Sorry, I thought you were one of our fine feathered friends.  They paid me a little visit."  He rose to his knees, feeling something warm and sticky running down his face.

 

            "You okay?"  Solo waited for Illya's affirmative before leaving his partner.  He disappeared briefly into the night and returned to find Kuryakin wobbling around in a tight circle, holding a handkerchief to his head.

 

            "Our bird has flown the coop,” Solo said, watching Illya curiously.  "Let's get back to Mr. Waverly.  I don't want to leave him alone -- it wouldn't look good on our records if we lost our boss.  Can you make it?"

 

            "Just let me stay here and bleed to death in peace,” Illya grumbled, as he finally located his gun and stuffed it into his holster.  Something else caught his eye and he fell to his knees to dig into the leaves.

 

            "Ah, are you digging yourself a grave or just playing wombat?", asked Solo wryly.

 

            "Neither, our THRUSH left us a present."  Illya triumphantly held up a rifle.

 

 

            Illya made a face as the doctor dabbed antiseptic on his forehead.  "What is that stuff?  Stump water laced with toadstool?"  He pulled away from the doctor and gingerly felt the lump on his head.

 

            Dr. Stanovich put his medicine down and said somberly, “I don't think you have a concussion, but you should rest for a while."

 

            "That's easy for you to say.  Anything, Napoleon?"  Illya rose shakily from the sofa to join Solo in examining the rife.

 

            "Not much, except this is definitely not a THRUSH weapon."  Solo dropped the unloaded rifle onto the table.

 

            "What?"  Illya inquired, as loudly as his pounding head would let him, and began examining the piece himself.

           

            "You heard me right, my friend.  Take a good look at that barrel.  Have you ever seen THRUSH use anything like that before?"

           

            Illya deftly snapped the breech together and hefted the gun to his shoulder with a practiced motion.  He took careful aim, squinting, only to pull back in astonishment.  "This barrel is way off to one side."

 

            "Exactly, you couldn't hit anything if you tried."

 

            Mr. Waverly came up to them.  "Mr. Kuryakin, Mr. Solo, am I to understand that the earlier attack was other than THRUSH conceived?"

 

            "It would appear so, Sir,"  Solo said.

 

            "Unless, of course, they're dangling red herrings at us,” added Illya, bringing the rifle up to his shoulder again and back down.  "Napoleon, you're right.  If it had been THRUSH, I would have been killed or at least captured.  According to my last brush with THRUSH, I've been added to their kill on sight list."   He could see the questioning faces of Leetrisa, Alexi, and Katrina.

 

            Solo saw them too, but he said, “It certainly isn't THRUSH's style to let people go, especially a sure victim."

 

            "Thanks, partner,” came Illya's dry response.

 

            Napoleon flashed him a grin, then sobered.  "If they were after Mr. Waverly, why did they stop?  Their assassins don't stop just because a victim shoots back a few times."

 

            Illya nodded and tossed the rifle onto a table.  "And leaving a weapon?  Face it, my friend, we're dealing with a bird other than a yellow-bellied THRUSH."

 

            "Pardon me, gentlemen,” came Katrina's soft voice.

 

            The three men turned to her.  "Yes, Katrina?"  Illya said.  His eyes on the girl were fond.

 

            "You were attacked, Illya, we were all shot at and you three stand there talking about birds.  I may be more dense than American women, Illya, but what are you talking about?"

 

            "Yes, explain the little birds to me also!"  Alexi roared.  Illya winced.

 

            Mr. Waverly regarded his two Section 2 agents, then cleared his throat.  "I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you about THRUSH that you'd understand,” he said, apologetically.

 

            Leetrisa stormed to Illya, red-faced, her long blond hair flying.  "All right, Mr. Russian-become-American, I want answers.  I demand answers!"

 

            "Sorry, Leetrisa, you can't order me around like that."  Illya shrugged his shoulders and instantly regretted the movement.  "You see, I only take orders from two people, Napoleon and Mr. Waverly."

 

            "No, Mr. Kuryakin, these people have a right to know.  If you and Mr. Solo aren't correct, then they have certain rights that should not be denied them."  Napoleon and Illya shot surprised looks at their superior, but Waverly continued, "You see, we're from an organization know as UNCLE, the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.  Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are two of my top agents."

 

            "Spies!"  Alexi barked.

 

            "Please,” Illya pleaded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Don't call us that, it has such negative connotations.  We're international enforcement agents."

 

            "I like the sound of that, Mr. K,” Solo chuckled, relieved to be more in the open.

 

            "Then you didn't desert Russia?"  Leetrisa asked softly, approaching her brother.

 

            "No, I did not desert Russia, I was sent to New York on loan from the KGB.  Everything worked out well, so I stayed on.  I assure you that I never ran out on our homeland.  It's just that I was needed in other places."

 

            Katrina sat down, hard, her expression dazed.  From her face Napoleon could tell that she had never been close to guessing the truth about Illya.  Finally she found her voice.  "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"

 

            Illya flung a look at Napoleon, who interjected smoothly, “Too much at stake.  If Illya told you about himself, he might also tell you about other UNCLE-related material.  That being the case, THRUSH might try to use you as a threat, a lever against him.  He tells you nothing, and they leave you alone.  Standard procedure."

 

            Any additional comments were drowned out by the sudden chiming of a huge clock.  As it banged out eleven strokes, the two lawyers suddenly came to life after sitting quietly through the whole earlier episode.  They conferred, pulled papers from their briefcases, and arranged them on the table before Mr. Rusa rose and cleared his throat for attention.  When everyone had settled and all eyes were on him, the lawyer began.

 

            "Let me begin by saying that Nicolas was a stubborn man, who wanted things to be done his way, even after death.  He carefully made certain that it was legally impossible to contest this will as long as the principle heir was here.  The will stands as follows.

 

            "`I, Nicolas Ivanvich Kuryakin, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath the following: To my grandson and only male heir, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, I leave my entire estate, including the castle and surrounding grounds.  He shall forfeit his inheritance unless he remains in the house or on the surrounding grounds for at least one hour for each year that he has lived.

 

            "`If by such forfeit or in the case that Illya cannot accept the estate, it will then be passed down and divided equally among Leetrisa Marie Kuryakin, Dr. Boris Stanovich, Katrina Malovich and Alexi Vladski.

 

            "`If none of these heirs should accept or survive the reading of this will, then the castle will be turned over to Stanley Burke, grandson to the designer of Valtra Dornei.'  Signed, Nicolas Ivanvich Kuryakin.'" 

 

            All was silent for a moment as heads turned to bear upon Illya.  The Russian sat with his eyes closed, working on the pounding in his head, apparently uninterested in the proceedings.

 

            "Why that insane old goat!"  raged Alexi, leaping to Illya and yanking him upright by his sweater.  Illya's face darkened.

 

            Solo rose, intent on helping his friend, but Mr. Waverly's voice interrupted him.  "Please be seated, Mr. Solo.  Mr. Kuryakin can take care of himself."

 

            Illya shook loose from Alexi's grip and growled, "He's right, Napoleon.  Thanks for the concern, but I'll fight my own battles.  I've wanted to clout this over-sized ape ever since I got here."  Illya spoke evenly, swaying slightly in anticipation.

 

            Alexi growled and rushed; Illya slipped aside.

 

            "Hold still and fight like a man, you little coward."

 

            Illya's blue eyes glinted with excitement, his headache temporarily forgotten.  He straightened and beckoned the huge Russian.  "All right, come and get me."

 

            "I'll break you in half, you traitor!"  Alexi charged and Illya exploded into action.  His first kick caught Alexi in the chin, followed by a second kick, to the stomach.  Illya, in total control of his body, spun and waited for Alexi to climb back to his feet.

 

            "Don't you know when you're outclassed?"  Illya dodged Alexi's punch easily.  "You forget -- I do this professionally.  I have to be good."  Illya slammed a vicious chop to the base of Alexi's neck, dropping him to the floor.

 

            "Had enough?"  Illya reached down to help Alexi up, but a fist flashed out to catch Illya on the chin, hard enough to make his neck pop.  The small Russian staggered back a step, allowing Alexi to leap up, then Illya whirled deftly, caught the big man's arm and gracefully tossed him into the wall.  Alexi groaned as he crumpled half-conscious against it.

 

            "Rule number one in the spy's handbook, Never underestimate your opponent,” said Illya, straightening, and wiped the blood from his mouth.

 

            Leetrisa knelt at Alexi's side as the doctor opened his bag again.  "You've become a monster, Illya,” she whispered.  Only Katrina was looking at Illya with respectful admiration.

 

            "Maybe I have, sister, but at least it's kept me alive."  Illya casually brushed his hair into place."

 

            Solo rose and threw Illya his coat.  "Come on, Conquering Hero.  With our friends out there, we'd better get some sack time in before they start act two."

 

            "Fine with me."  Illya held up a postponing finger, and leaned close to the groggy Alexi, grinning evilly.  "Sleep well, old man!"  he yelled into an unprotected ear, and rushed to join his friends' exit.

 

 

            Napoleon walked out of the bathroom, a red velvet smoking jacket over his black silk pajamas.  Illya was sprawled in a chair near the roaring fireplace, a glass of vodka in one hand, his attention on a book by Chekhov.

 

            "It's all yours, Illya."  Solo sat in the second chair, feeling very civilized and comfortable.

 

            Illya blinked up at him and laid the book down, straightened his back, and stretched his arms high over his head, glass still in hand.  "Do you think it's all right to leave Mr. Waverly by himself?"

 

            "I think so.  After all, he's come this far -- he's got to have some tricks of his own."

 

            "You're right, I guess."  Illya drained the last of his drink and headed for the bathroom.

 

            "I'm always right, that's why I'm your superior,” Napoleon yelled after him.  He heard Illya's chuckle before the door closed.

 

            Solo was gazing dreamily into the fireplace when his muscles tensed.  He had been an agent for far too long to ignore the sign.  He flashed a quick look around the room and his attention focused upon the slowly turning doorknob.  He sprang instantly from the chair and swung opened the closet door to reach for his gun holster -- momentarily removing his vigilance from the hall door.

 

            Solo felt himself shoved roughly into the closet and heard the door slam.  Digging through the clothes, he grabbed and pushed at the unyielding knob, and shouted for Illya.

 

            Illya, however, heard nothing save the rush of water past his ears.  He tilted his head back to let the cool water massage his face and run down his body, rubbed his tight, sunburned skin with soap, and sighed contentedly.  Soap rinsed down his body as fresh water ran over his head.  Reluctantly, Illya reached down to turn the water off, just as the room went dark.

 

            The Russian agent stood up.  "Ha, ha, ha, Napoleon, very funny.  What do you do for encores?"  he said sourly.  He reached again to turn the water off and knocked the soap down instead, then straightened and growled, "All right, I give up.  Now will you please turn the light back on!"  Illya turned toward the door and his foot slipped on the soap.  He realized he was going down and flailed his arms with a strangled cry, and it was then that the shots rang out, amplified by the confinement of the small room.  One bullet sped past Illya's chest, creasing the skin as it went.  Illya crouched into the protection of the iron tub as gunshots riddled the space above his head, pieces of tile raining onto him from the bullet-gouged wall.  Illya thought frantically about Solo.  Then there was a click, another click, and the door opened and closed.  When he was sure he was alone, Illya reached up to shut the water off.  He eased slowly out of the tub, dripping, and made it to the light switch.

 

            Light flooded the bathroom and he squinted in the brightness, surveying the damage.  He bent over to pick up a bullet casing and again remembered Solo.  The Russian wrapped a towel around his waist before he cautiously opened the door a crack.  He saw that the hall door was shut and the bedroom deserted, and slipped through the door, calling softly, "Napoleon?"  Then, louder, "Napoleon?"

 

            A bang from the closet made him jump.  "Illya, you crazy Russian wolfhound, let me out of here!  I'll wring your Slavic neck for this!"  Illya hitched up the towel and opened the closet door.  A confused and angry Napoleon Solo emerged.

 

            "What are you doing in the closet, Napoleon?  I never knew you took your clothing fetish so seriously.  Or is there something you want to tell me?"  Illya asked, amused.

 

            Solo straightened his robe.  "You should know -- you tossed me in there."

 

            "Sorry, my friend, I'd love to take credit for it, but I was at my own party."

 

            Solo stared at the blood trickling down Illya's chest.  Finally, he found his voice.  "What happened to you?"

 

            "Either someone has a thing against tile or somebody just tried to kill me.  I'd gravitate towards the latter, myself.  He sure shot the hell out of the wall in there."

 

            "Don't misunderstand my next question, but why aren't you dead?"

 

            "I slipped."  Illya shrugged and grabbed at his sliding towel, just as the hall door swung open to admit the rest of the party.

 

            "We heard gunshots,” said Mr. Waverly.  "What happened?"

 

            "Someone tried to cut Illya's claim short,” Solo said, smoothing his hair.

 

            Katrina gasped as she caught sight of Illya, whose blood had mixed with the water, forming little rivulets that ran down his sunburned stomach to stain the white towel pink.

 

            "Are you all right, Illya?", she asked.

 

            "Just a scratch and a few bruises,” answered Illya.  A flush dyed his skin even redder as he realized that all he had to protect him from prying eyes was one unpredictable towel. He clutched it closer and slid toward the bathroom door.  "I think I'll get dressed now.  Excuse me."

 

            "Let me see that `scratch' when you're decent," called the doctor after him.

 

            As he emerged from the bathroom for the second time, Napoleon smiled at him from one of the beds.  "Ready for some sack time?" 

 

            Illya's fingers combed his hair, shaking water from it.  "I guess so.  What happened to our guests?"

 

            "They got tired of waiting for your repeat performance with the towel and went back to their rooms.  There's a bottle for you on that table -- it was the only way I could get rid of the doctor.  You'd better use some so you won't pick up some strange infection, since heaven knows where that bathtub has been."

 

            Illya boosted himself onto the edge of his bed and shrugged off his robe, revealing pajama bottoms and a bare upper torso.

 

            "Trying to impress me?"  Solo asked the scarred back.

 

            "If I had wanted to impress you,” Illya shot back,  "I'd have put on the top and left the bottoms off."  He dabbed clear liquid from the bottle onto some cotton that had been left with it and tenderly touched it to the bullet crease.  He chewed his lips, continuing to smear liquid onto the wound, until finally, satisfied, he tossed the cotton into a waste basket and burrowed his feet into the sheets.

 

            Suddenly Illya pushed the covers back and went to the closet for his gun.  He returned to the bed, saying, “I always feel better when I'm sleeping with a friend."  He tucked the gun beneath his pillows and settled back against them.

 

            Solo smiled and patted the P-38 beneath his own pillow.  "I knew you'd eventually come around to your senses, Illya my boy."  He chuckled, clicking off the lights.  Illya's response was lost in the dark.

 

           

                                                                             

            Solo tossed in his sleep.  It was light in the room, and it couldn't possibly be morning.  He cracked one eye open and growled, “Okay, Illya, off with the light.  Read in the morning."

 

            "Huh?"  Illya's voice was thick with sleep.

 

            Napoleon sat up and peered around.  Bright light streamed through the window onto his bed.  He puzzled for a moment and finally slipped out of bed to walk to the window.  "Say, Illya?"

 

            "Yes, Napoleon?"

 

            "Did I or did I not hear the butler tell us that the east tower was blocked off?"      

 

            "Napoleon, it's three in the morning.  I don't want to play games.  Go back to sleep."  Illya pulled the blankets over his head.  "And shut the lights off."

 

            "Just bear with me, did good old Kolya say the east tower was shut off?"

 

            "Yeah, so what?"  Illy's voice was now edged with irritation.

 

            "Well, unless my sense of direction is way off, the east tower is glowing like a Christmas tree."

 

            Illya struggled up, shaking off sleep, climbed out of bed and joined Solo at the window.

 

            "That's the east tower, all right."

 

            "My friend, I'd say we have some snooping to do."  Solo smiled, his curiosity piqued.

 

            A long scream broke the silence.  Both men grabbed their guns and before the sound had ended, Illya had ripped the door open, flattening himself against the wall.  Solo peeked out, noted that the hall was clear and that down the passage Waverly's door was opening.  The elderly UNCLE chief appeared, knotting his robe.

 

            "Did you gentlemen hear....?"

 

            "Yes, sir, we did."  Illya answered, easing himself down the hall until he came to another open door.  Leetrisa lay on the floor inside.  Illya dropped to his knees beside her and felt for a pulse as Solo scanned the area.

 

            "Good God, Illya, look!"  Solo gasped.  The small blond agent glanced up, eyes following Solo's gesture.  Alexi had apparently been reading in bed, but was now hindered by the fact that his head was gone.

 

            "Mr. Kuryakin, take your sister to your room, while Mr. Solo and I take care of the late Mr. Vladsky,” Waverly ordered.

 

            "Yes, sir."  Illya paused for a moment, looking for a spot to stick his gun and finally handed it over to his partner.  He scooped up his unconscious sister and carried her back to his and Solo's room.  He settled her in a chair and chafed her wrists, speaking softly.  "Leetrisa, wake up."

 

            She murmured, and her eyes flew open.  For a moment she paused, her mouth working, and finally squeaked out, "Oh, Alexi."  She flung her arms around Illya's neck and buried her face in his chest, shaking with sobs.  Her brother stroked her hair gently and whispered encouragement in soft Russian and eventually she pulled back and began pushing at her tears with her knuckles.  She accepted a tissue gratefully from Illya, wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

 

            "I'm sorry, Illya, you must think me a weak woman."

 

            "It's all right, Leetrisa, I understand.  Can you tell me what happened?"  Illya held her hand gently.

 

            "I was in Katrina's room, after we had left you and Mr. Solo, and we were talking about what Mr. Waverly said.  We got carried away and it got sort of late.  I'd promised Alexi that I'd say good night, so when I noticed his light was still on, I looked in.  I opened the door and there sat Alexi."  Her tightly controlled voice caught and fresh tears flowed down her cheeks.

 

            Dr. Stanovich and Katrina appeared at the door.  "We just found out what happened."  Katrina knelt beside Leetrisa, who was sobbing again.

 

            "Doctor, can you handle things here?"  At the doctor's nod, Illya stood and patted him on the shoulder.  Lock the door behind me and don't let anyone in."

 

             Illya caught up with Solo and Waverly in the hall.

 

            "She all right?", asked Solo.

 

            "She'll be fine.  She's a Russian and a Kuryakin.  We're a strong people--Russians get used to seeing their loved ones dragged out into the night by the KGB.  By tomorrow morning, she probably won't remember his name.  Did you find anything back there?"

 

            "Absolutely nothing, Mr. Kuryakin, I'm afraid."

 

            "Nothing?", Illya gestured to his head.

 

            "Which is exactly what I don't understand.  What would anybody do with a head?"  Solo wondered out loud as they walked back toward their room. As they entered the bedroom, the doctor spun abruptly, startled.

 

            "Calm yourself, Doctor, it's only us."  Illya motioned him back.  “I thought I told you to lock the door.”

             "I… I forgot.  I've given Leetrisa something to make her sleep, but she'll need help back to her room."  Illya exchanged quick glances with Solo and Waverly, and nodded.  He lifted Leetrisa up easily and the woman smiled at him.

 

            "Will you tell a bedtime story, little brother?  Baba Yaga?  You do the best witch."

 

            "She's out of it,” murmured Illya as he walked past Solo.

 

            Upon reaching Leetrisa's room with Solo and Katrina, Illya found he couldn't reach the doorknob.  He shifted his sister around and tried from another angle, but it still eluded him.

 

            "Allow me, old man."  Solo twisted the knob and gave the door a pull, then jumped back in surprise at seeing Alexi's head dangling suspended in the doorway.  Illya quickly turned around to keep the gruesome sight from Leetrisa.

 

            After Napoleon cut the head down, Illya finally carried his sister through the door.  Leetrisa giggled and tossed her head back to look upside down at Solo.  "Poor Alexi, they always said he had a good head on his shoulders.  If only he could have kept it there."

 

            "Whatever you say, Leetrisa."  Illya carried her to the bed and settled her between the sheets, where she was asleep in minutes.

 

            "I'm going to stay here tonight, Napoleon."  Illya's gaze still rested on his sister's sleeping form.

 

            "Are you sure that's wise?"  Solo questioned, eyes roving over the interior of the room.

 

            "She's all the family I have left, Napoleon.  I can't let anything happen to her.  I'll keep on my toes. Besides, I've got my gun and my razor sharp wit."  Illya fell into a chair close to the bed.

 

            "At least you have your gun,” retorted Napoleon.  At his friend's dour glare, he continued, “Call me if you need anything...anything at all, understand?"  Napoleon smiled and offered his arm to Katrina, but she shook her head.

 

            "No, thank you, Mr. Solo, I want to stay here for a bit...just to make sure that Leetrisa is all right."  She sat down and arranged her skimpy robe around her knees.  Solo, appraising the knees, sighed and left reluctantly.

 

            "Katrina, I want you to leave.  You'll be safer in your own room than here with me."

 

            "I'm afraid I don't understand."  The dark-haired woman remained seated.

 

            "There's already been one serious attempt on my life and the killer may try again before the night's over.  I don't want you to be here if he does.  Things could get a bit bloody from what I've seen so far."

 

            "I just want to talk to you, Illya.  Remember?  You said we could talk.  After all we meant to each other, surely you can spare me a moment or two."

 

            Illya hesitated, then joined her on the couch.  He remained silent until Katrina spoke again.

 

            "So your secret is out."

 

            "Yes, it's definitely out," Illya agreed slowly, apprehensive about where the conversation might lead.

 

            "And I'm still alive.  Would it have hurt you to tell me sooner?"

 

            "I wouldn't have told you at all.  That was Mr. Waverly's doing, not mine." She slid next to him and clasped his hands in hers.  Illya tensed for a moment, then forced himself to relax.

 

            "I still love you, Illya.  I always have, I guess I always will.  Ever since we were children, I've loved you."  Illya stared into her dark eyes, pain and desire on his face.  Abruptly he rose and pulled away to face the wall.

 

            "You can't, Katrina, you mustn't.  I can't allow anyone to come into my life right now.  Napoleon is my closest friend and even that shouldn't have happened, but at least he knows what we're up against.  The people we deal with are killers, cold-blooded killers.  They'll extinguish a life as casually as you would a candle.  My self control keeps me alive:  I lose my control, I lose my life.  In my line of work being a loner is essential."  He walked to the fireplace and began to poke the coals back to life.  "I can't promise a tomorrow, Katrina, I can't even promise a today."  He laughed bitterly.  "Not to you, or to me."  He felt a chill run down his spine and realized he had left his robe back in his bedroom.  Suddenly self-conscious, he sat back down on the couch and looked at his hands.

 

            "You never even said goodbye," came Katrina's quiet voice.

 

            "Would you have been able to?"  Illya responded, just as softly.

 

            "No,” she said, after pausing.  She yawned as the first warmth of the fire touched her.  Illya remained quiet, flexing and unflexing his fingers.  She watched him for a moment before moving closer to him.  "Illya, look at me."  The Slavic face turned towards her and she smiled at the creased brow.  "I'm not asking for any tomorrows, Illya, just for a now.  I never even thanked you for saving my life."

 

            She pressed her lips against his for a long moment.  Finally Illya pulled away, swallowing hard.

 

            "Well,” he said, shrugging his shoulders,  "there's no reason why we can't be comfortable."  He slid a muscular arm around her neck and jockeyed for a better position, arranging himself so that he could concentrate his attention on both Katrina and the door.  Carefully keeping one eye on the door, he twined a hand in the girl's long hair and smiled seductively.

           

                                                                             

 

            A slight creak brought him to sharp alertness.  He glanced at his watch, which registered 6:41 a.m.  He extracted his arm from around the sleeping Katrina and worked the feeling back into his hand.  With his other hand, he aimed the Walther steadily at the slowly opening door.  His finger tensed on the trigger as it swung wide to reveal Doctor Stanovich.  Illya let out the breath he had been holding and lowered the gun.

 

            "You surprised me, Doctor.  That's a good way to end up dead."  The doctor regarded him coolly, staring at the weapon.  Illya rose and arched his back.

 

            "I thought I'd see if you'd like to get some tea or something while I watch the girls,” said the doctor, frowning at Katrina's open robe.  "I trust I was not interrupting anything."

 

            Illya chose to ignore the question.  "Thanks, I could use a break."  Illya hitched his pajama pants up and offered the gun to the doctor, who only shook his head.

 

            "I prefer to be left to my own devices, Mr. Kuryakin, thank you."

 

            Illya hesitated, then left, stopping off for a moment to change into a turtleneck sweater and jeans.  Then, with a yawn and a groan, he marched downstairs.

 

            Not much later, Illya opened the door to the bedroom he shared with Napoleon, carefully balancing a tray with one hand.  Unconscious of the noise, Solo had buried his head beneath the pillows to escape the rays of the early morning sun.  Illya set the tray down and roughly shook Solo's shoulder.  "Come on, you lazy blighter!  Too much sleep makes a slow agent."

 

            "Propaganda,” groaned Solo, and slowly rolled over.

 

            "Breakfast is served, sir."  Illya gestured to the tray, then crawled up onto his bed, collapsed, and wearily shut his eyes.  Solo sat up, stretched, and reached for his robe.

 

            "Served?"  he asked Kuryakin's prone figure.  Getting no response, he tried a different approach.  "Rough night?"

 

            "A long one.  I'm getting too old for this.  Dr. Stanovich is with them now."

 

            "Them?"  Solo took the tray and began uncovering dishes.

 

            "Leetrisa and Katrina.  Katrina stayed the night,” muttered Illya.

 

            "Oh?"  Solo's eyes acquired an evil twinkle as Illya struggled to sit up.

 

            "Don't ‘oh’ me, Napoleon.  I'm not the one with the overactive libido and no morals."

 

            Solo smiled and bowed his head in Illya's direction.  "That's as often a blessing as it is a curse, my prudish Russian."  He poured a cup of coffee.  Illya groaned, but he was hiding a smile from Solo.

 

 

 

            Napoleon dabbed at his mouth, watching Illya sleep.  Smiling, he rose and headed for the bathroom for a shower and shave.  After donning a fresh suit, he walked over to Illya's bed and whacked the bottom of his boots.

 

            "Rise and shine, Prince Charming!  Let's go see how the doctor is doing."

 

            Illya pulled himself off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom.  He turned on the cold water and stuck his head under the tap, and by the time he had finished shaving, he was almost awake.  Wiping his face with his hands, he made his way back to Solo.

 

            "How's the head?"  Solo inquired as he watched Illya massage his temples.

 

            "As soon as I find the top half of it, I'll let you know,” Illya mumbled, working his fingers over closed eyelids.

 

            "Think you're ready to face the world?"

 

            "As long as it doesn't expect too much in return."  Illya followed Solo down the hall, strapping his holster on over his turtleneck.  Napoleon pulled Leetrisa's door open and then stopped so abruptly that Illya crashed into him.

 

            "Hey, no sudden stops!  I don't have radials!"

 

            "Shhh.  You'll wake them and I don't think they need to see this,” Solo said softly. "I don't think I need to see this."  Illya peered curiously around him and shuddered at the sight.  Dr. Stanovich sat not two feet from the sleeping Katrina, his head neatly halved by a Russian battle axe.

 

            "At least the killer left the head this time, or what's left of it,” Illya whispered.

 

            "You have a sense of humor at the strangest times, Illya."

 

            "It keeps me from throwing up."

 

            "Oh.  We'd better dispose of the body before they wake up."

 

            "Sorry, we don't have a body disposal," Illya answered hoarsely.  "Not much of a demand for one until last night."

 

            "Guess we can put him in with Alexi.  I don't think he'll mind the company.  You grab the head,” Solo directed.  He lifted the feet of the late Stanovich and waited for Illya to return with a towel to wrap around the doctor's head.

 

            "Why do I get all the dirty work?"  Illya grumbled as the towel became soaked with blood.

 

            "Because I'm your superior,” Solo replied serenely.

 

            They were returning from their grisly task when Mr. Waverly appeared at his bedroom door, a heavy flannel robe over his pajamas.  "Good morning, gentlemen.  Wonderful day, is it not?"

 

            "It is not."  Illya shook his head sadly.

 

            "I beg your pardon, Mr. Kuryakin?"

 

            "What Illya is trying to say is that there's been another murder, Dr. Stanovich."

 

            "His head was chopped in two with a glorified meat cleaver,” Illya added solemnly.

 

            "A shame."  Waverly shook his head sadly.  "I liked the Doctor, he had such a common way of viewing things.  THRUSH, do you suppose...?"

 

            "Impossible,” Illya interrupted.  "Why Stanovich with you just a few doors down?  THRUSH doesn't make mistakes like that."  Illya brushed drying blood from his hands and glanced down the hall for possible dangers.

 

            "How old are you, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Waverly asked, abruptly.

 

            "Thirty-five, sir, and we've been here thirteen hours."

 

            Solo sighed deeply.  "I don't know about you gentlemen,” Solo said,  "but the next twenty-two hours are going to be the longest in my life."  He started back to where the two girls slept, and Waverly disappeared into his room.

 

            The girls were showing signs of waking when they returned.  Solo explained the incident to them, carefully leaving out all unnecessary details.  Still, none of them could help but notice the huge pool of blood around the sofa.

 

            Katrina pulled her feet up further.  "That could have been me,” she whispered, ashen, and Solo took her hand, using his best soothing manner.  Illya watched, put on edge by Solo's behavior towards Katrina, then dismissed it as mere jealousy.  He began to prowl the room, searching for some clue to the murder.  Just inside the bathroom door, he saw the mirror and stopped.  He steadied his still-empty stomach and called for his partner.

 

            Solo frowned at the voice, but also noticed the edge of tension in it.  "Excuse me, ladies, Illya has no sense of timing.  All right, Illya, what's stuck this time?"  he complained loudly on his way to the bathroom, knowing the ruse would fool the girls.

 

            He stepped inside, and Illya gestured to the door.  "Close it please, Napoleon."  Written on the mirror behind the blond agent were the words,

 

            "The girls will die next, Kuryakin."

 

            "At least the killer know who you are, Illya,” Napoleon commented.  "He must have done the doctor in and used his blood to write the message.  But, who is he?"  Solo began to wipe at the words with a tissue.

 

            "I don't know, Napoleon, I just don't know.  But I do know that I don't want to end up with everything just because I've had practice at eluding death before."

 

            "Okay, we'll handle this professionally.  I mean, we are professionals, after all.  Let us examine the facts at hand."  Solo wadded up the first tissue and reached for another one.

 

            "Shoot!"  Illya said, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter around the sink.  "Oops, sorry, bad choice of words."

 

            Solo shook his head at Illya before starting.  "All right, since eight o'clock last night, there have been five attacks of violence."

 

            "Right: the one at the table, the fracas out in the bushes, the shooting in the bathroom..."  Illya ticked them off on his fingers.

 

            "And the unfortunate demises of Mr. Vladsky and Dr. Stanovich,"  Solo concluded.

 

            "Two out of five, that's not good."

 

            "Do you know anyone who'd want to wipe out your grandfather's heirs?"

 

            "No, except me by THRUSH and then I'd be the only one they were after, not any of these other people..."  Illya was interrupted by a knock on the door.  Leetrisa's voice floated in to them.

 

            "Pardon me, please, I don't know how you Americans use the bathroom, but whatever you're doing, could you hurry it up?  I really have to use the facilities."  The door opened and Illya jumped down from the counter.  "I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was a private party,” she said as Solo brushed by her.

 

            "Maybe we can have our own party later,” Solo suggested softly.  Illya cleared his throat, and caught Solo's sleeve.

 

            "Work now, party later."

 

            "Slave driver,” Solo grumbled.  "Let's leave Mr. Waverly in charge of these gorgeous creatures and get some heavy thinking done."

 

            "Fine with me.  I, personally, want to tear that tower apart."

 

            "First we decide what we're looking for, then we tear."

 

                                                                             

 

            Solo and Illya looked up from the mass of books and blueprints that surrounded them as Katrina and Leetrisa entered, laden with trays.

 

            "You two have been working so hard that you forgot about lunch,” Leetrisa said, taking in the room.  My word, Illya, you're still as big a slob as you were at home.  Mama would just die if she saw this."

 

            "Mama is already dead,” Illya said somberly, the long fingers of one hand tangling his blond hair in concentration.

 

            "Anyway,” Katrina picked up,  "Mr. Waverly suggested that maybe we should bring the water to the horses since the horses weren't going to come to it."

 

            Solo murmured something courteous while Illya returned his full attention to his notes, absently scratching his peeling face.

 

            "I've been meaning to ask you, little brother, where did you get the magnificent sunburn?"

 

            "The Sahara desert,” Illya said sourly, his eyes on the blueprints of the castle.

 

            "Ha, ha, it is to laugh, you're quite the witty one.  Couldn't you come up with something a bit more original?"  Leetrisa asked, uncovering a platter of roast duckling in orange sauce.

 

            "Yes, if it weren't the truth."  Illya's stomach growled at the smell of the food, but he kept his thoughts on the paper in his hands.

 

            Katrina smiled at the serious face.  "Illya, come eat before it's cold,” she coaxed.

 

            "Later, I'm busy."  Illya waved her away.

 

            "That's why you're so skinny,” Katrina scolded fondly.

 

            "Napoleon...?"  Illya brought his eyes up from the paper to exchange a helpless look with Solo.

 

            "He just leads a rigorous way of life, my dear,” Solo corrected smoothly.  He took each girl by an elbow.  "If you young ladies will excuse us, we've got serious work to do and your beauty is far too distracting."

 

            Leetrisa yanked her arm from Solo's grasp and shook her long blond hair defiantly.  "Sure, come on, Katrina.  Mr. Waverly is much more fun that these two polyaks.  We'll play some more backgammon and I'll tell him about Illya as a child."  Illya threw a glare of warning in her direction as she swayed to the door.

 

            "At least, he's polite,” Katrina added, head high.  Illya waited until they had made their very loud exit before allowing himself to take an interest in the food.

 

            As they finished off the last piece of baklava, Napoleon sighed, leaned back in his chair and contentedly patted his stomach.

 

            "We really should thank the girls properly, you know.  If I could eat like this all the time, I wouldn't mind giving up UNCLE and getting hitched."

 

            "If you ate like that all the time,” Illya commented, wiping his sticky fingers with a napkin, "you'd have to give up UNCLE and get hitched.  You wouldn't make it over a threshold, much less a THRUSH hold."  Illya chuckled at Solo's pained expression.  "A little professional humor,” he explained.

 

            "Very little,” Solo agreed.  "Besides, you're a fine one to talk.  I wasn't the one playing human garbage disposal."

 

            Illya sighed and leaned back in his chair.  "I'm a growing boy."  Abruptly, he changed the subject.  "I need to get out for a while.  Been cooped up too long.  Want to come?"  Illya rose and picked up a leather jacket.

 

            "I don't know..."

 

            "Come on, chubby, I'll give you a tour of the grounds.  The exercise will do you good."  Illya threw Solo his jacket and led him down a back flight of stairs to the outdoors.

 

            This was Solo's first good look at Valtra Dornei.  The castle stood tall, majestic against the dark green Romanian mountains that surrounded her.

 

            "Sure will be a shame to convert this into a training camp,” he finally remarked to Illya as he followed the blond agent down marble garden stairs, taking deep breaths of clean mountain air.

 

            "Not really.  I saw that I had three options.  First, I could keep the castle and just have it maintained from my apartment in New York.  That I deemed impractical.  Second, I could retire and live here.  That I deemed boring.  Face it, my friend, I'm not cut out for aristocracy.  Last, I could sign it over to UNCLE  That I deemed practical and convenient.  If I want to come back, I just put in for retraining.  A good agent can never get too much training.  Turn here."  Illya pushed open a wrought iron gate and led Solo into a hedge-enclosed section of the garden.

 

            Solo glanced around, curious: it was a cemetery.  Illya made his way to a freshly covered grave and stood there for a long moment, wearing a solemn expression.  He closed his eyes and shook his head, and Solo realized how very little he knew of the enigma he called his partner.  "What's wrong, Illya?" asked Solo, quietly.

 

            "I can't even think of a prayer to say,” Illya said, low-voiced.  "There's just nothing there.  I thought I'd feel something for him, that it would be different, but it's not.  I don't feel any more for him than for the THRUSH agents I've cut down.  Has UNCLE made me a cold-blooded killer like them, Napoleon?"

 

            "No, of course not,” Solo chided gently.

 

            "Then why don't I feel something, anything?"  Illya's blue eyes were as bleak as his voice.

 

            "I don't know, Illya.  Maybe it's because we've seen so much death that it doesn't affect us any more.  Maybe we're so conditioned for death ourselves that it just doesn't hurt.  Hell, I don't know, Illya.  I wish I did.  I'm sorry."

 

            Illya looked at Solo for a moment before smiling faintly.  "What did the wise man once say about the insincerity of saying I'm sorry?  Let's get back to the house."  Illya quickly walked away, not waiting to see if Solo followed, and Napoleon hurried to keep up with him.

 

            Suddenly he grabbed Illya's arm and pointed.  "Look!"  Illya glanced up and caught a split-second glimpse of someone standing in the top window of the east tower.  "Come on!"  Solo dashed towards the tower, dodging around the low shrubs.  Illya hesitated only a moment before charging after his partner.

 

            Solo came to a stop at the base of the tower and scrutinized the large rock slabs for an opening, waiting for Illya to catch up with him.

 

            "There's no entrance out here, we'll have to go through the main hallway,” Illya panted as he joined Solo.  "Ah, shouldn't we check in with Mr. Waverly first?"

 

            "He'll only discourage us.  Snoop first, confess if caught."

 

            "Sounds like the ideal game plan,” Illya agreed, catching his breath.  "Lead on, MacDuff!"

 

 

 

            "This is it."  Illya stopped in front of a heavily reinforced oak door.

 

            "Finally!"  Solo complained.  "It took long enough."

 

            "Hey, I haven't been here for quite some time and I never claimed to be a tour guide.  Mr. Waverly accused me of that."  The door refused to give.  Illya scowled and then reached to remove a needle-thin lockpick from his watchband.  He twisted and worked it carefully in the lock until he heard the tumbler click back.  "Try it now,” he told Solo.  Napoleon gave the door a push -- it creaked, protestingly, but remained shut.

 

            "Will you give me a hand?"  The Russian thought briefly of applauding, but tried to get a hand hold on the door.  "Something is blocking it from the other side,” said Solo, drawing his gun.  "Let's remove the hinges.  You don't mind, do you?"

 

            "Why would I mind?"  Illya wiped his hands on his pants.

 

            "It is your place, after all,” Napoleon reminded him, clamping on the gun's silencer.  He took careful aim and fired, holding his hand in front of his eyes to protect them from flying wood, and repeated the process until the hinges hung free from the wood.  "Okay, try it now."  Solo reholstered his gun and glanced down to straighten his suit jacket.

 

            Illya pulled again at the door and jumped as it tilted and began to fall toward him.  He pushed at it, but the weight was too great for him to stop.  "Napoleon!"  he cried in a strangled voice, "Help!"  Solo looked up, eyes widening as he saw his partner about to be made into pate.  He grabbed for the door, and together they wrestled it to the floor.

 

            Illya placed his hands on his hips in disgust.  "Will you look at that?"

 

            "When your grandfather does something, he does it right,” Solo agreed as he regarded the brick wall that stood behind the door.

 

            "Now what?"  Illya patted the wall to check its solidity.  Solo sat down and removed a small ball of white putty-like material from the heel of his left shoe.

 

            "When in doubt, blow it up!"

 

            "I'll have to remember that,” Illya said, watching Solo place the plastic explosive on the center of the wall.  He reached behind him, palm up, to Illya.  Illya stared blankly at the hand for a moment before understanding lit his face and he slapped the doorknob into Solo's outstretched palm.  Solo pulled his hand back and frowned at the knob.

 

            "I need a detonator, Illya, not a doorknob."

 

            "Don't look at me."  Illya gestured at his turtleneck.  "No buttons.  I don't even have my gun."

 

            "Why do I always have to use my buttons?"  Solo grumbled as he pulled a button free from his suit jacket and placed it into the putty.  He carefully loosened the short piece of thread that was left dangling from his jacket, implanted one end into the putty on top of the button, and unwound a short length of it.  Illya's cough stopped him, before he took refuge.

 

            "Are you sure you're far enough away?  Remember what happened last time you tried that."

 

            "Lest you let me forget,” Solo snapped, unwinding an additional two feet to let him hide around a corner.  "You clear?"

 

            "Blow it!"  Illya shouted back, and plastered himself against the wall.  The blast shook the room, but the castle's heavy construction contained the roar.

 

            Illya and Napoleon picked their way through the rubble, waving their hands to clear the air.  "Napoleon, look at this!"  Illya held up a skull.

 

            "I think you've found your missing grandmother.  Your grandfather must have been quite resourceful,” smiled Solo as he helped Illya clear a hole big enough for them to scramble through.

 

            Squirming in, Solo squinted about, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light as the late afternoon sun filtered through the stairwell windows onto settling dust and scattered pieces of bone.  "We'd better make this quick,"  said Solo,  "our hello was a bit louder than I'd have liked,"  and he led the way up the staircase.

 

            Towards the top, it narrowed almost to a ladder, until their progress was halted by a trapdoor.  Illya braced Solo as the American agent tried to open it, and the door gave with comparative ease, sprinkling Solo with dust.  He stifled a sneeze and poked his head up through the hole.

 

            The room before him contained only a table, chair and bed, thickly covered with dust.  Cobwebs hung down from every inch of the ceiling.  "Nobody's home, Illya,” Solo announced, and Illya, too, hoisted himself up into the room.

 

            "Maybe we should come back later, or we could just wait to see who shows up, but personally I prefer to do my snooping without an audience."

 

            "I'd rather have a nest of killers holed up rather than just one floating around loose somewhere,” contradicted Solo.

 

            Illya grinned back, brushing the dust from his hands.  He stopped, frowning.  "This is the oddest dust I've ever felt.  The texture isn't right."  He raised two fingers to his nose and then tentatively touched them to his tongue.  "It's flour."

 

            "And I'll bet those cobwebs are fake too."  Solo reached up for one, but stopped at a low rumbling from the wall.  He exchanged a glance with Illya, who braced his feet against the wall, ready to launch an attack.

 

            A wall section slid back and the butler stumbled in.  He took two shaky steps and fell forward.  They approached him carefully as he attempted to rise, and Solo clenched his teeth together at the sight of the butler's head.  The back of his skull had been crushed in.  Kolya groaned as Illya kept him from falling again.

 

            "Kolya, what happened?"  Illya felt his arm growing sticky, then wet, from the butler's oozing blood.

 

            "He promised,” the butler gasped, face screwed up in pain.

 

            "Who promised, Kolya?"  Illya shifted slightly, moving closer to the dying man.

 

            "He said no one would get hurt, but he's tried to kill you twice."  The man coughed and drew a deep breath.  "But he mustn't hurt Miss Leetrisa or Miss Katrina.  Don't let him hurt them, Illya.  You can stop him, you have to stop him.  He's mad."  He drew another breath.  "Let him have the castle, Illya, but don't let anyone else die...please."  The head lolled forward and Solo shook him.

 

            "Who, Kolya?  Who's doing this?"

 

            The head bobbed and Nick moaned and mumbled something.  Illya leaned forward to catch the word, but the butler heaved a last sigh and relaxed.

 

            "He's gone Napoleon."  Illya laid the body down on the floor.

 

            "Did you get that last bit?"

 

            "Something that sounded like Dirk."  Illya looked around for something to cover the dead man.              

 

            "Ring any bells?"  Solo asked, his head halfway into the wall opening.

 

            "None, I don't know any Dirks.  I'll have to keep working on it."  Illya pulled a sheet from the bed, covering himself with great puffs of flour, and placed it over the butler.  "Who could have done something like this?  It takes substantial strength to crush in a man's head."

 

            "I don't know, but I'll bet we'll find him at the end of this tunnel."  Solo's voice echoed macabrely from the secret passage.  He re-emerged, regarded Illya, and remarked, “You look like the ghost from the Christmas that never was."

 

            Illya looked down at the flour on his clothes and shrugged, as Solo disappeared back into the hole.  Illya quickly forgot the body on the floor and followed his partner.  "Napoleon, be careful."

 

            "Don't worry, Mommy."  Solo kept one hand against the wall and clutched his P-38 in the other.  "Stay close.  These tunnels probably honeycomb the entire castle."

 

            "You bet I'll stay close -- you've got the only gun."  Illya banged his shin and swore.  "I can't see a thing,” he complained.  "You'd think the labs could come up with a flashlight we could carry on us.  Talk to me, Napoleon, so I can tell where you are."

 

            They descended the stairs, picking up speed as their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, until Napoleon halted suddenly and Illya ran into him, scraping one hand against a rough wall.

 

            "Didn't I warn you about sudden stops once today already?"

 

            Solo crept forward.  "My sixth sense just kicked up, Illya.  Something's wrong...Illya?...Illya?"  Solo heard a soft thump, like a pillow landing on the floor.  He turned to scan the dark passage, and saw a shape on the floor.  When he bent over it, asking, “Illya?"  a blinding explosion went off in his head.

 

 

 

            Napoleon Solo gradually became aware of a swinging sensation.  It was quite pleasant except for the numbness in his hands.  He slowly opened his eyes and waited for his vision to clear.

 

            "Welcome to the waking world,” Solo heard Illya mumble.  He shook his head.  The red haze lifted and Solo was able to get his first clear view of their predicament: both he and Illya dangled a foot from the floor, suspended by locked manacles on their wrists.  The merest movement sent waves of pain down his wrists, but Solo twisted, once, to see the rest of the room.

 

            "Your grandfather had some sense of humor, Illya, my boy.  This place is right out of a B horror movie."  Solo glanced at the various torture devices the room held.

 

            "Don't look at me.  I've never been in this part of the house before."  Illya wiggled his fingers in a vain attempt to keep the feeling in them.

 

            "So you're awake.  I was afraid I had killed you prematurely."  The speaker emerged from the shadows to stand tall and hulking before them, thick muscles corded about his body.  His hair was long and unkempt, and so were his clothes.

 

            "There are the arms strong enough to crush a man's skull,” Illya said quietly.

 

            "Indeed they are!"  the man bellowed as he flexed the bulging biceps, but Illya was looking at his eyes.  They were bright, full of maniacal savagery, and Illya sighed.  He had seen that look before.

 

            "Our little birdie,” verified Solo.  "With a rotten sense of humor."

 

            "Quiet!"  demanded the man, and set Napoleon swinging.  Solo ground his teeth together, refusing to cry out, waiting for the waves of pain to subside.

 

            "Ixnay on the ottenray,” Illya muttered.  "When the wolf gnaws, smile."

 

            The newcomer glared at him, puzzled.  "I wish I had time to figure out what you're saying, but I've got an appointment to keep."

 

            "With the Marquis de Sade?"  Napoleon asked, his mouth twisted into a painful smile.

 

            "No, with an old man and two young ladies."

 

            "You leave them out of this!"  Illya demanded, yanking at the manacles that held him.  "If you've got any business to conduct, do it with me."

 

            "Oh, I fully intend to, my dear Illya, just as your grandfather did with mine."

 

            Illya chewed on that for a moment before gasping, “Burke.  That's what Kolya was trying to say."

 

            "Who?"  Solo felt left out.

 

            "The man who designed and built Valtra Dornei,” Illya explained.

 

            "And who your grandfather had put to death in this very room,"  Burke added briskly.

 

            "He was found guilty of treason against the state and of thievery,” Illya argued.  "And he was suitably punished for his crimes."

 

            "He was framed and condemned to an unjust death!"  Burke grabbed Illya and spun him around.  Both of Illya's shoulder joints protested the strain, but Illya, gray-faced, kept his mouth tightly shut as Burke continued, “Just as I shall put you to death, dear Illya.  I assure you, it will not be pleasant.  I shall enjoy hearing you scream."

 

            "Thanks all the same, but what did I do to deserve this?  It's not my birthday."

 

            "But when it's your death day, I'll have my final revenge, as well as something which rightly belongs to me."  He let the blond UNCLE agent go and watched him swing for a moment before hitting a lever.

 

            Beneath their feet a trap door swung open to reveal long spikes far below.  "In case you get loose from the manacles, there'll be no escape except down."

 

            "All dressed up and no place to go,” Illya said softly, his mind already plotting an escape.

 

            "Oh, don't worry about us,” Napoleon shot back at Burke.  "We'll just hang around here until you get back."

 

            "Indeed you will, for I shall be right next door."  Burke stormed to the door and slammed it behind him.

 

            "Now what, oh great leader?"  Illya mumbled, trying to feel his feet, or at least his toes.

 

            "Well, unless you have some objection, I'm for splitting this place.  The company is too dreary for my taste."  Solo flung his head back to stare up at the manacles.  "How are you at picking locks?"

 

            "I minored in it at training camp."  Illya's voice was muffled by his shirt sleeve as he pulled back the cloth with his teeth to reveal his wristwatch.  "And will you look at that?  He left me fully loaded."

 

            "Can you reach it?  It's a gamble, I know, but try."

 

            "As a man named Lazarus Long once said, if you don't bet, you can't win."  Illya clenched his fists and pulled himself into a chinup, kicking his legs.  Halfway up, he threw his weight on one arm and reached up to grasp the chain with his other hand.  Panting, teeth clenched against the pain, he drew up level with his watch.  He deftly removed the thin lockpick with his teeth and mumbled around it, “I have to remember to get a better tasting watchband.  This one is terrible."

 

            "Illya,” came Solo's impatient voice.  "We don't have much time before you-know-who gets back.  Worry about your watchband later."

 

            "Gotcha, boss."  He checked his grip, inserted the pick into the manacle lock, and twisted.  One hand jerked free and Illya gasped in agony at the sudden weight shift onto his still-shackled hand.  Solo held his breath as Illya wrapped the free hand in the chain that now dangled loosely above his head and went to work on the second manacle.  After opening that, he started to swing back and forth, pumping his legs to gain momentum.  When he finally let go, the force of his swing cleared the trap door, but his legs refused to support him and he crashed unceremoniously to the floor, panting with exertion.

 

            "I'll be right there, Napoleon, just hang on for a second."

 

            Solo shut his eyes, and Illya belatedly realized what he had said.  "I'm sorry about that, Napoleon."

 

            "What did the wise man once say about the insincerity of saying I'm sorry?"  Solo mumbled Illya's earlier quote.

 

            "Beats me, that's why I asked you in the first place."  Illya rose, swaying slightly.  "You ready?"

 

 

 

 

            "Okay, the coast is clear."  Solo ducked his head back into the doorway.  "This time, don't get knocked out."

           

            "It wasn't my intention the first time, I assure you."  Illya eased himself out of the room.  Solo followed him down the hall, holding a poker.  "You'd, ah, better hope he doesn't have your gun.  Pokers are notoriously short-ranged,” whispered Illya as they reached a second door.  He peeked through the barred peep hole.  "This is it, and if we don't hurry, I'm going to be an only child."

 

            "And unemployed,” Solo added.  "How are your wrists?"

 

            "They'll have to do."  Illya ignored the pain from the bruised, rapidly swelling wrists.  He pushed up his sleeves and worked his fingers.

 

            The agents exchanged glances and Solo whispered, “Ready?  Let's do it."  Illya lashed a powerful kick into the door and it swung open with a loud crash.

 

            "So much for stealth,” Solo commented, preparing to do battle, but Burke was nowhere to be seen.  Waverly, Leetrisa and Katrina were chained against the far wall, gaping at the two men.

 

            Mr. Waverly found his voice first.  "Quickly, gentlemen, our host may return at any time."  Illya crossed to them and began to work on Mr. Waverly's manacles.

 

            "With a little more practice,” Illya said, blond hair falling into his eyes,  "I can quit UNCLE and take up work as a professional picklock."

 

            "I beg your pardon, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Waverly rubbed his freed wrists.

 

            "You had to be there, Sir,” responded Solo, eyes intent upon the door and the corridor beyond.  "Almost through, Illya?"

 

            "Just a minute more."  Illya was opening the shackles that held his sister.

 

            "What happened to you?"  Leetrisa asked, her eyes on his wrists.

 

            "One of the rigors Napoleon was telling you about."  He quickly unlocked Katrina's manacles and flashed a smile at her.  Replacing the pick in his watchband, he grabbed her hand.  "Come on, it's time to lay rubber."

 

            Solo suddenly stiffened.  "Enemy fighter at three o'clock, Illya!  Get behind the door!"

 

            Burke came storming in, face red with rage, clutching Solo's gun.  Illya pushed farther back against the wall as the door stopped against his toes.  He shuddered with pain and held his breath.  Burke counted heads, then demanded, "Okay, where is he?"

 

            "Who he?"  Solo pondered, scratching his cheek in puzzlement.

 

            "Illya, that's who!"

 

            "Illya?  I don't know an Illya.  Do you?"  Solo turned to Leetrisa, who shook her head.

 

            "Uh huh, never heard of him.  What about you, Katrina?"

 

            "Why, no, the name's not familiar,” Katrina readily agreed, shaking her long black hair.

 

            "Well, there you have it."  Solo gestured widely, grinning.  "No Illya!"

 

            "It would be a shame to kill you with your own gun.  Perhaps one of the young ladies might be persuaded to remember."  Burke held the gun steady and began to approach the group.  Behind him, Illya gently pushed the door shut.  It clipped Burke's heels and the hulking man spun, giving Solo an opening to launch himself forward and wrestle the gun away.  Burke scurried back like a wounded rabbit, seemingly unaware of the fact that he towered over and outweighed both of the agents.

 

            "Okay, Burke, my friend, let's try this again!"  Illya crouched slightly, knees bent, hands raised for battle.  Burke took one look at him and bolted for the door.

 

            "Illya ,let's go!  We can't lose him!"  Solo started in hot pursuit of Burke with Kuryakin on his heels.

 

            "He's heading for the main chamber!"  Illya shouted.  The heavy oak door slammed shut in their faces and they were forced to wrestle with it before proceeding.  They finally swung it open and halted abruptly as it revealed Burke facing them with a rifle in his hands.

 

            "Now the pleasure will be mine and my family name will be avenged as the last Kuryakin falls.  Drop the gun."  Burke backed up a little to keep both of them under cover.  Solo snapped a look in Illya's direction, but the Russian could see nothing save the man in front of him.

 

            "Pardon me, Mr. Burke, but I wouldn't back up any more if I were you,” Solo said, throwing his gun down.

 

            "Don't try to fool me, fool.  I know every inch of this castle."  And Burke took another step back to prove it.  His heels hung in midair for a split second before he pitched down and backwards onto the spikes.  His scream died in his throat.

 

            The two agents rushed up to the pit and peered over the edge.  "Ugh,” Solo groaned, "I thought you shut that."

 

            "No, I thought you had,” Kuryakin shot back.

 

            "Lucky neither of us did.  Too bad he wouldn't listen to me."

 

            "Men like that seldom listen to men like us, Napoleon.  You did try."  Illya's acute hearing picked up footsteps.  "You'd better close that up before the girls and Waverly get here.  I don't think they'd be crazy about seeing a human pin cushion."

 

            "Hardly a sight for young ladies,” Solo agreed.

                                                                             

 

            "And so he just decided to knock everyone off until he was the only one left,” Solo said, as he and Mr. Waverly marched down the castle's main stairs, three days later.  "And because the will couldn't be contested, it wouldn't matter whether the deaths were natural or man-made.  As long as he didn't get caught, he had it made."

 

            Mr. Waverly nodded gravely, looking rested and refreshed.  "The poor man only wanted to clear his family name.  Good intention, but the wrong game plan."

 

            "The best laid plans,” offered Solo.

 

            They walked through the entrance hall to Tassia, who hugged them goodbye.  Solo looked up to see the coach outside, laden with the luggage and a dark-stained wooden barrel.

 

            "What is in the cask?"  Waverly asked as his eye, too, came to rest on the foreign object among their suitcases.

 

            "A keg of the wine Mr. Solo enjoyed so much his first night.  A thank-you gift."  Tassia smoothed her hands on her apron as they walked to the coach.  "Come and see us again soon,” she invited, “and bring my Buska with you."

 

             Mr. Waverly smiled graciously over at the woman and said, "I'm sure you'll see both Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin again.  They seem to require an extraordinary amount of training."

 

            Mr. Waverly climbed into the coach, followed by Solo, who was grumbled, “Now where'd Illya get to?"  Mr. Waverly merely pointed to the top of the outside stairs where Illya stood, saying goodbye to his sister.

 

            "Where will you go now?"  he asked Leetrisa.  "UNCLE will have to know.  And, by the way, what are you going to do with your new-found wealth?"

 

            The girl looked at him puzzled.  "You're talking in riddles again, little brother.  What wealth?"

 

            "Oh, didn't I tell you?  I've arranged with UNCLE to have you sent an allowance of 5000 rubles a month for the next few years, or until your share of the estate runs out."

 

            Stunned, Leetrisa whispered, “Don't toy with me, Illya."

 

            "I wouldn't dream of it, Leetrisa.  You see, UNCLE already pays me a very nice salary, all I need, at any rate.  I wouldn't be able to spend two billion dollars if I tried.  So, through UNCLE, I donated an eighth of it to the retirement fund, and an eighth to our friends in the KGB, then made it clear that you and Katrina were each to receive a fourth in whatever sort of payment you decided.  I chose rubles and a monthly sum, but you can change it if you'd like."

 

            "What about the last fourth?"

 

            "That'll go into a Swiss bank account to use if and when I get the chance to retire."  He stopped at the woman's confused face.

 

            Finally she murmured, "Illya, why?"

 

            "You're a Kuryakin, aren't you?"

 

            "Of course."  She crossed her arms, waiting for the rest.

 

            "And so is Katrina...well, almost.  She still may be, if I can fit it in.  I have to look out for the family now -- it's my responsibility.  A Kuryakin never shirks his duty."

 

            "Where will you go?"

 

            "Hard to tell.  Wherever Mr. Waverly sends me.  Maybe back to Africa, or London, or maybe downtown Idaho Falls.  Wherever I'm needed."  Illya paused and hugged his sister.  "Take care and get in contact with me if you need anything.  Just send word to the castle and they'll see to it that I get the message,” he whispered.

 

            She hugged him in return.  "I'm just beginning to understand you at last, Illya, and you're leaving again."  Seeing Katrina approach, she released him.

 

            "I have to."

 

            "Don't stay away so long next time, promise, little brother?"

 

            "Promise."  Illya watched her walk to the coach, then glanced back and saw Katrina.  He took a deep breath and began, “Mr. Waverly tells me that you'll be staying on as a nurse, Katrina.  That's good, we need dedicated people like you in UNCLE"

 

            The girl appeared to be considering, and finally spoke in a soft floating tones, “You made me an offer several years ago, Mr. Kuryakin.  Is the position still open?"

 

            "I've already explained all of that to you, Katrina,” Illya said, with a small smile.  "I can't let anyone interfere with my life right now."

 

            "Not now, I know, but I'm very patient."

 

            "It may be years,” Illya interrupted.

 

            "Then I'll wait years,” she answered back, smiling gently.  "After all, I've been waiting a long time already.  I'd hate to think that all those years have gone to waste.  What's a few more?"

 

            Illya caressed her face with a slender, powerful hand.  "I hope you won't be disappointed."

 

            "I won't be, I know.  When will you be back?"

 

            "I don't know.  But even top agents need to be retrained occasionally."  He shrugged, and his hair fell down over his face.  She pushed it back and gazed fondly at the blue eyes before turning away.

 

            "I can't say it, Illya, I just can't."

 

            "Then don't."  Illya caught her shoulders and turned her.  He pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss.  "Da svydanya, Katrina,” he whispered.  "Until we meet again."

 

            "Da svydanya, Illya."  The girl turned away, pressing her hands to her eyes.

 

            Illya picked up his overnight bag and hurried to hug Tassia goodbye, then he climbed into the coach beside Solo and pulled a book from his jacket pocket.  Solo and Waverly both looked out the coach windows, waving at the three women on the stairs.

 

            "Hey, aren't you going to wave back?"  Solo dug an elbow in Illya's side.

 

            "A good agent never looks back, Napoleon,” Illya whispered, his eyes intent on his book.

 

 

                                   


End file.
